Lutishia Lovely: All Up In My Business Bundle with A Preacher's Passion & Reverend Feelgood

by Lutishia Lovely

Genres: African American; African American Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

Lutishia Lovely: All Up In My Business Bundle with A Preacher's Passion & Reverend Feelgood All Up In My Business Lutishia Lovely serves up a sizzling behind-the-scenes tale of rivalry and scandal in a family's booming soul food dynasty. . . With brothers Malcolm and Toussaint Livingston at the helm, business at Taste of Soul is thriving and the family seems to have it all. But jealousy and competition threaten to tarnish their picture-perfect image. Toussaint is a risk-taker, determined to expand the restaurant chain at a record pace, but levelheaded Malcolm insists on challenging Toussaint's goals. And at home, there's more heating up than grits and collard greens. Malcolm is growing weary of his marriage and his ever-expanding brood of children. His brother's Casanova lifestyle looks more and more appealing. But Toussaint's playboy days aren't as carefree as Malcolm thinks. Toussaint's met his match in interior designer Alexis St. Clair, a woman who refuses to become just another dish on this player's mating menu. But if Toussaint has his way, the happenings in both the boardroom and the bedroom are all about to change. . . A Preacher's Passion Lutishia Lovely is back with another smoldering journey into the scandalous and occasionally sanctified lives of people who go to church but aren't always 100% Christian. . . Passion Perkins is hot to trot. After being celibate for five long years, she's ready, willing, and able to end her drought. But she's also determined to hold out for Mr. Right. . .a man her friends say doesn't exist--until Lavon Chapman walks into her life: a powerful and handsome man who has come to the community to film an inspirational DVD about Passion's minister, Doctor Stanley Lee, and his fiery wife, Carla Lee. But Lavon is only in town for eight weeks. . . Passion is now on a mission to make Lavon her husband and to end her celibacy. . .and not necessarily in that order. But she's not the only one. It seems Doctor Lee, though a master in the pulpit is a dud between the sheets, so Carla Lee has Lavon in her sights--and is determined to end up on top. Before long, other members of the church community are entangled in scandals of their own, and while some are getting busy in service to the Lord, others are just simply getting busy. . . Reverend Feelgood In Lutishia Lovely's wickedly sexy new novel, an energetic young pastor works overtime to keep the ladies in his congregation deliciously satisfied. . . Nathaniel "Nate" Thicke is a preaching prodigy. At only twenty-eight years old, he's the senior pastor of The Gospel Truth Church. In addition to carrying on the preaching tradition begun by his great-grandfather, Nate is also just plain carrying on, wherever the spirit--and the flesh--lead him. And when it leads him to three women from the same family, bickering and backstabbing follow. . . Content with having his pick of the flock, Nate is surprised to discover he's fallen head-over-heels in love, and decides to become a one-woman man. But the other ladies aren't about to give him up so easily. They're prepared to do whatever it takes to get their man back--even if it means adding a few more shocking sins to their list. . .

Release date: March 1, 2011

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 931

Sample

Oh my God! “Is that … No, it can’t be!” Chardonnay Johnson slammed on the brakes, frantically looking up and down the street, and then over to the business complex that housed the Livingston Corporation. She cautiously rolled down her window, her breathing heavy as she continued to look around. Except for the faint noise that came from the boulevard she’d just exited, all was quiet. She didn’t see any movement, no other cars except the few in the company parking lot of the headquarters for the restaurant where she worked—the parking lot where she had no business being this time of night.

“Zoe told me to mind my own business,” Chardonnay whispered, her eyes once again fixed on the large something or other lying on the ground next to an open car door. “But, no, you just had to be nosy.” Mere seconds had passed since Chardonnay turned toward the parking lot entrance and her headlights had picked up a massive lump on the ground. But these seconds felt like an eternity as she sat frozen, wondering what to do, while at the same time trying to convince herself that she wasn’t seeing what she was looking at. The parking lot was large, and it was dark, so she almost convinced herself that she’d watched too many crime movies and was simply imagining things, that all she needed to do was turn around and go home. She’d go to bed, wake up, and arrive at her workplace, Taste of Soul, and find out she’d been tripping all along. “Girl, you need to get out of here.” Chardonnay pulled to the side, preparing to make a U-turn in the street and get the hell out of Dodge. Her eyes darted between the road, the building, and the lump. It’s probably just some garbage bags, she thought. She turned her car around but turned to take one last peek at the eerie-looking scene. In that moment, two things happened: It dawned on her who the car with its door open belonged to, and the “garbage bags” moved.

“Oh, no!” All thoughts for her safety aside, Chardonnay whipped back around and raced across the near-empty parking lot, pushing her fifteen-year-old Nissan Maxima to its limits. Her heart leaped to her throat as she drew closer, her headlights confirming suspicions that what had appeared as a massive lump of trash on the pavement was indeed a body. Her heart beat an erratic rhythm as shaky hands threw the car in park while simultaneously reaching for the cell phone. Chardonnay panicked. She locked her doors, then unlocked them. Should I go to him? No, I should stay inside my car. Look at all that blood on the ground! Chardonnay didn’t think she knew Jesus but found herself calling his name as she dialed 911.

“Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

“Yes, Operator, somebody’s been shot!”

“Someone has been shot?”

“Yes! I mean, I think so. He’s on the ground. He isn’t moving. He was, but he isn’t now.”

“Where has he been shot, ma’am?”

“I don’t know!”

“Okay, calm down. Where are you?”

“The Livingston Corporation parking lot.” Chardonnay gave the address. “You need to get here, quick!”

“An ambulance is on the way, ma’am. Did you see who shot the victim?”

“No, I just drove into the parking lot and saw him here on the ground. And there’s a pool of blood underneath him.” Chardonnay thought she saw a shadow run around the far side of the building. Seconds later, she heard screeching tires. Chardonnay’s eyes went wide. All twenty-seven years of her life seemed to flash before her in an instant. She threw down the phone, put her car in drive, and raced away from the scene. She could still hear the operator coming through on speaker-phone.

“Ma’am, what is your name? Ma’am, are you there? Please, calm down.”

“Calm down, hell!” Chardonnay yelled. “I just heard squealing tires. It might be the killer! Look, I gotta go! I got kids.”

Seven months earlier …

“You’ve come up, my brothah! This place is off the charts!” Toussaint Livingston moved around the new “man cave” in his brother’s house.

“I was hoping to have it done last weekend and invite y’all over for Memorial Day.”

“That’s all right. The NBA championship game is coming up. I know where I’ll be watching.”

What had formerly been a seldom-used, garden-level family room now resembled a gentlemanly sports club: Dark-stained walls offset by white marble floors surrounded a pool table, a poker table, oversized chairs, and well-placed ottomans, and a wall-length, fully stocked bar anchored the room. Framed, autographed photos of some of Malcolm Livingston’s favorite athletes lined the walls, along with a few famous jerseys, footballs, basketballs, and a Hank Aaron-autographed baseball bat. Anyone seeing the man who now stood before a signed Michael Jordan basketball, which was encased in Plexiglas and sitting on a pedestal, may have mistaken him for a professional athlete. A tautly muscled six foot two and two hundred pounds, Toussaint looked ready to catch a pass and then run for fifty yards, or hit a baseball out of the park. “Man, he said, continuing to scope the room. “You make me want to fix up my place.”

“What’s stopping you?” Thirty-four-year-old Malcolm Livingston, Toussaint’s older brother by eighteen months, proudly walked over to the bar that had been made to resemble the one in his favorite gentlemen’s club. Aside from stocking almost every liquor known to man, the bar housed four beer taps and the necessities for serious drink-making: shakers, strainers, muddlers, slicing boards, and glasses of every shape and size. A full-sized refrigerator, with the front made out of the same wood as that on the walls, blended seamlessly into the well-appointed space. Malcolm couldn’t wait until the next Super Bowl. “Huh? What’s stopping you?” he asked again, pouring him and his brother mugs of ice-cold beer.

“You have a wife to handle the details. I don’t have one of those or the time to do it myself.” He accepted the beer from his brother and took a swig. “Ah. This is on point!”

“First of all,” Malcolm said after he, too, had taken a long swallow, “you don’t have a wife because you don’t want one, and secondly, everything you’re looking at was my idea—well, mine and the designer’s. All Victoria did was let the woman in.”

Toussaint’s ears perked up. Woman?

“Yeah, I thought that would get your attention. Unlike the past two months when I’ve tried to tell you about the renovation and you were too busy to listen.”

“I don’t remember you mentioning a female.”

“That’s because I was trying to tell you about the design, not the designer, brother. Uh-huh, you wished you’d listened now, don’t you? And she’s fine too ….”

“What’s her name?”

“Don’t matter,” Malcolm answered, purposely messing with his skirt-chasing sibling. “This one isn’t your type, Toussaint. You like ‘em tall and light, all polished and refined. Like Shyla. Alexis is a dark, bohemian-style chick.”

“C’mon now, Malcolm. You know I like dark meat. Alexis? That’s her name?”

Malcolm sighed and walked over to a rectangular coffee table. He reached down and pulled out a folder. “I know you won’t stop until you’ve satisfied your curiosity, so here you go. This is her marketing material. And I’ll tell you now—she’s good, but she don’t come cheap!”

“In designing or dating?”

“Ha! Definitely the designing but probably both.”

Toussaint took the folder and sat on the dark leather love seat. DESIGNS BY ST. CLAIR was emblazoned across the front of the pocketed folder. He sipped his beer as he opened it and was immediately drawn to the photo of a woman on the folder’s bottom left side. Toussaint’s eyes widened as he hurriedly set down his beer. “I know her!” he exclaimed.

There she was, looking just the way Toussaint remembered—like a bar of dark chocolate. And, he imagined, probably tasting as sweet.

“What do you mean, you know her?” Malcolm asked. Toussaint chuckled and sat back, his eyes still glued to her picture. “She got into a fight over me,” he began ….

“Wait, wait!” Long locs flew behind the compact, curvy woman as she ran up to the parking meter attendant. “I’ve got a quarter.” She hurriedly dug into her purse and pulled out a wallet.

The attendant, who’d just flipped open his pad, began punching in numbers.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to stand there and write up a ticket. I told you, I have the quarter.”

“Look, when I got here, the meter was expired.”

“We got here at the same time! Why are you going to charge a ridiculous fine when I’m standing here telling you that I’ve got it?”

“You should have thought about that before you came back late to your car.”

“This isn’t my car, but that’s not the point!”

“What? This isn’t your car? Then why are you yelling at me? You can’t pay for someone else’s meter time.”

“Are you kidding me? How do you know who’s paying for what?”

“I know that you aren’t paying for this. This vehicle is being ticketed.”

Alexis St. Clair knew she was being totally irrational, but she was livid. Recently, she’d received a citation for being parked in a nine-to-five no-parking zone. She’d been to a business meeting breakfast and had reached her car at 9:01. After finding out the amount of the fine—over one hundred dollars with court costs—Alexis had become incensed and decided to fight the charge. She showed up in court, but her very logical argument of why one minute should not equal one hundred dollars—with a timed and dated camera shot provided as evidence—was soundly shot down. She learned from a couple other citizens who were also fighting their tickets that a new company had taken over monitoring the streets of Atlanta. The number of tickets issued had gone through the roof. She’d been angry ever since, which is why when she saw yet another hapless Atlanta citizen about to get jacked (because in her mind it was straight-out robbery), she took matters into her own hands.

Hands on hips, the usually calm Alexis brushed aside the attendant and placed a quarter in the slot. “You cannot put a ticket on a car that is parked legally, and this car is now parked legally. So your ticket is null and void!” When she was really angry, a slight accent from summertimes spent with her St. Croix paternal grandparents surfaced. Now was one of those times. Her words were clipped and precise, her voice raised.

“Look, I’ve had just about enough of you,” the short, slightly overweight officer said with a huff. “If you don’t leave now, I’ll have you arrested!”

Toussaint, who’d been observing this exchange in rapt amusement, hurried to the scene. He’d enjoyed seeing a complete stranger come to his, or rather his Mercedes’s, defense—had enjoyed watching her give attitude. Not to mention he’d appreciated watching her ample breasts heave with her movements, loved how her thick booty filled the back of her jeans. Yes, he’d enjoyed the show and the scenery but didn’t want to see the sistah get arrested.

“Officer, there’s no need for that. If you’ll give me the ticket, I’ll be on my way.” Toussaint’s comment was directed toward the officer, but his dazzling smile was on Alexis. “Thanks for defending me. That was impressive.”

“Toussaint?” For the first time since the encounter began, the officer stopped punching his pad.

Toussaint turned to look at the officer. “Greg?”

“Man, how are you doing?”

The two men did a soul brother’s handshake.

“I can’t complain.” Toussaint looked at the ticket machine. “At least not too much.”

The parking meter officer looked embarrassed. “Aw, man, I wish I’d known. I’ve already processed it so, you know … maybe call the office.”

“Oh, so if you’d known it was him”—Alexis whirled on Toussaint—”whoever you are”—and then back to the officer—”you wouldn’t have written the ticket? Is that how things work? Not what you know but who you know? So Mr. Mercedes gets off scott-free if he knows somebody, but Ms. Infiniti here has to pay?” Alexis was now as angry that the officer might not give the ticket as she was when he was determined to give it.

“My goodness, we’re feisty,” Toussaint said, his flirty eyes scanning Alexis’s body with admiration. “If it makes you feel better, baby, I’ll pay the ticket. And I want to thank you for defending my honor by taking you to dinner.” He reached out his hand. “I’m Toussaint Livingston. And you are?”

“Out of here,” Alexis said as she turned to walk away. The man was obviously some muckety-muck who got life handed to him on a silver platter. People who got passes like that got on her nerves. His deep-set brown eyes, long curly eyelashes, wink of a dimple, and thick juicy lips had gotten on her nerves as well. She didn’t have time for … none of that.

“But wait.” Toussaint hurried after her. “What’s your name?”

“I’m not interested.”

“But it’s just dinner!”

“I’m not hungry.” With that, Alexis crossed the street and disappeared into downtown Atlanta’s morning rush crowd.

Malcolm laughed as Toussaint finished his story. “She left you hanging, just like that? Alexis is a smart, talented designer, but that feisty filly you described doesn’t sound like the woman I know.”

“You haven’t seen her fire, my married brother, but I have. And I want to fan that flame. This is the same woman. I’d know her anywhere.”

“You mean you want to know her. But it doesn’t sound like that feeling is mutual.” Malcolm laughed again at the thought of his Don Juan brother being rejected. That didn’t happen often. No wonder he was curious.

“Can I hang on to this?” Toussaint said, placing the folder under his arm as he stood and drained his glass. “I think it’s about time for me to redo my house.”

After Toussaint left, Malcolm poured himself another brewski and then settled himself into one of the room’s oversized recliners. He opened up the arm, revealing an array of buttons that operated every electronic feature in the room. Smiling, he pushed the first button. A smooth pulley system began retracting a deep navy curtain along one wall, revealing a 125-inch screen. Malcolm popped the remote control out of its recessed cradle, also in the arm, and turned on the set. The television was set on ESPN2, and tennis was playing. It didn’t matter to Malcolm. Aside from polo and maybe swimming, he’d never met a sport he didn’t like.

Ah, yeah, that Nadal dude is bad. He watched the tall, muscled Spaniard race across the baseline and backhand a volley across the net. The crowd went wild, and the player clenched his fence. Malcolm noted Nadal’s opponent was the equally talented Roger Federer. Malcolm reached for a bowl of salty pretzels, ready to enjoy a quiet Sunday afternoon watching the Wimbledon final. He turned up the volume, smiling. This is going to be good.

“Daddy! Daddy!” Brittany, Malcolm’s rambunctious six-year-old, came bounding down the stairs. On her heels were his three-year-old twins. “We want to go shopping, get some ice cream. Can you take us? Please!”

“Where’s your mama?” Malcolm asked, his eyes not leaving the screen. God knew that he loved his children, but he’d be lying if he said there weren’t times when he didn’t long for the good ole bachelor days. Like now, when he wanted to chill and watch TV—alone.

“She said she’s tired. She told us to ask you!”

Malcolm fought to not show his irritation. Britt saw everything. One hint of a frown and she’d turn into the Enquirer, asking why he was mad at her or her mother. He swore the child was psychic, because as quiet as he and Victoria tried to keep their ever-increasing disagreements, Britt always seemed to sense their discontent.

“Look, Daddy’s tired too. Let me rest awhile, finish watching this game, and then I’ll take y’all out somewhere.”

The twins begged to stay downstairs with him, but he bribed them into returning upstairs. Now he had to get ice cream and toys. Malcolm thought about his wife and this time didn’t try to hide his frown. What’s really going on with you, Victoria? You’ve been acting strange for the past couple months. Ever since … Malcolm abruptly turned off the set, poured the almost-full mug of draft beer down the bar sink’s drain, and walked up the steps. Thinking about his marital situation had darkened his mood, especially as he thought of his footloose and fancy-free single brother. He imagined that even now Toussaint was making a date with the sexy interior designer at whom Malcolm could only look and not touch.

I love being married with children, Malcolm concluded as Brittany, the twins, and the oldest son, Justin, piled into his SUV and they headed to Lenox Square. But I don’t like it all of the time.

Adam Livingston loved the taste of her thighs. Tender on the inside and crispy on the outside, nobody could fry chicken better than Candace, his wife. Even now—after living and working together for more than three decades—his mouth still watered at the thought of this juicy, dark meat. Whether the succulent morsels on his dinner plate or those he hovered over when between the sheets, Candace knew how to please him. Unfortunately, the way she sexed him and handled a bird aside, Adam knew that Candace in the kitchen wasn’t necessarily a good thing. His wife rarely cooked these days, preferring instead to either eat at one of their restaurants or have their on-call personal chef whip up an intimate lunch or dinner with guests. Now, when Candace graced the kitchen with her presence, it usually meant a conversation was coming regarding something he’d rather not discuss with her—namely her extravagant spending sprees, plastic surgery, or the ongoing competition between their sons.

Technically, money wasn’t a problem. The restaurant his parents had opened in Atlanta fifty years ago had grown into a soul food empire, with ten highly successful restaurants in seven Southern states. Additionally, the barbeque sauce his grandfather had created—which was slathered on their most popular menu item, baby back ribs—had been sold in grocery stores nationwide for the past five years. Still, Candace could spend money faster than Usain Bolt could run the hundred-yard dash. Just last year she’d renovated their kitchen to the tune of fifty thousand dollars, had their backyard relandscaped to resemble the scenic islands they’d visited on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, and had one of the guest bedrooms converted to a closet to handle her almost daily jaunts to Nordstrom, Bloomingdale’s, and Saks. These renovations had increased the value of their mansion and had made Candace happy. So Adam hadn’t complained … too much.

And when it came to plastic surgery, Adam thought his wife had had enough. She’d always been beautiful in his eyes, ever since he saw her walking across the Clark Atlanta campus back in the seventies. She’d looked like a Fashion Fair model to him that day, her dark caramel skin enhanced by the beige mini she wore along with similarly colored thigh-high boots. Her long, thick hair had matched the sway of her hips as she’d casually chatted with a friend. A couple days later, when he saw her in the cafeteria, he’d immediately gone over and introduced himself. She was even finer up close than she’d been from a distance, and after taking one look into the almond-shaped brown eyes that sat above a wide yet nicely shaped nose and luscious lips, Adam had gotten the distinct impression that he was looking at the mother of his children. This feeling proved prophetic—Candace became pregnant during her junior year, when Adam was a senior. They’d married that summer and welcomed their oldest, Malcolm LeMarcus, the following December.

Even after having their second son, Toussaint Lamont, Candace stayed slim. When she hit her forties and finally gained thirty pounds that didn’t shed easily, Adam still thought she was fine. She was five foot seven, and to him, the extra weight hardly showed. Candace hadn’t seemed that bothered by it, either, until her sister-in-law, his twin brother’s wife, Diane, had commented on Candace being “fat” during a family get-together and had suggested liposuction as a quick way to take the weight off in time for their cruise to the Fiji Islands. Candace had been so pleased with the results that a tummy tuck soon followed, and breast implants followed that.

Any brothah would be pleased to squeeze a set of firm titties, even if he’d had to pay for them, and Adam was no exception. But a couple weeks ago, when Candace started complaining about her wide nose, Adam had shut her down immediately. “You’re becoming addicted to this shit,” he’d warned. “If you don’t stop cutting on the body God gave you, you’re going to become as obsessed as Michael Jackson was, may he rest in peace. You look fine, Can. Give it a rest.” So he hoped she’d gotten the message, because he didn’t intend to pay the highly skilled and equally expensive cut-and-paste doctor another dime.

That left the topic of his and Candace’s sons. The midyear company meeting was in two weeks, right after Juneteenth, so Candace probably wanted to butter him up regarding some plan in the works—probably another of Toussaint’s outlandish ideas. Adam loved his youngest son, but he swore that boy didn’t have a fear bone in his body. Where Malcolm was more like Adam, in looks and demeanor, Toussaint was definitely his mother’s child. Like her, he was brilliant, but he’d also inherited her impulsiveness and flamboyance. Toussaint had run an idea by him some months ago, an idea that Adam had nipped in the bud as quickly as he had Candace’s nose-job suggestion. “We’re trying not to have to sell the company, son,” he’d patiently explained. “And to not take on more debt.” Adam wasn’t sure how the other players would feel about constructing more Taste of Soul locations across the country, but he hoped that his and Candace’s vote would be the same—no f’ing way. The more Adam thought about it, however, the more he thought this might be exactly why he smelled chicken frying. Damn, I have too much on my mind to argue with Candace about this right now.

One thing on his mind was the e-mail he’d just received on his smartphone from the woman who’d been trying to seduce him for the past two years. He’d met Joyce Witherspoon in the clubhouse after a golf outing. They had exchanged business cards, because she’d told Adam of her plans to start an event-planning business, and she wanted to contract with Taste of Soul as one of the catering partners. Her e-mails had slowly gone from strictly business to potential pleasure, even as she launched the successful, high-profile business that kept the Taste of Soul catering arm busy. Adam was flattered, and Joyce was attractive, but he had told her that he was happily married. Joyce’s response had been quick and witty. “You’re married, but are you flexible?” He assured her that there was no room in his bed for a third party, but she continued her erotic banter in various phone calls and e-mails. Adam reread Joyce’s detailed description of what she wanted to do to him with her mouth and then pushed DELETE. He had always been faithful but could no longer ignore the fact that Joyce’s constant flirtations and adoration was wearing him down.

I’ve got to do something about this … and soon. Adam picked up the Atlanta Journal-Constitution and pulled out the sports section, determined to take his mind off of Joyce’s blatant suggestion. The only woman who’d be putting her mouth anywhere on him was cooking dinner in his kitchen.

Candace Livingston poured melted butter into the baking pan and then sparsely coated each buttermilk biscuit with the warm liquid before spacing the dough out evenly in the bottom of the pan. She loved cooking, especially now that she didn’t do it often. It was a love she’d inherited from the grandmother who’d helped support a family of four by cooking for an affluent family in their hometown of Birmingham, Alabama. “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” Amanda Long would tell Candace as she whipped up a slap-your-mama pound cake or an oh-no-you-didn’t peach cobbler.

Candace smiled at the memory of those kitchen counseling sessions. Adam may think it was her small waist and big booty that had captured his heart, but Candace knew it was those candied yams and collard greens she’d fixed while they were dating. But somewhere between the birth of their first son and the opening of their second restaurant, the thrill had gone. She’d worked long, arduous hours at the Buckhead location, in the same tony suburb where they lived, and while it had been a labor of love, her joy for fixing food had been replaced with repulsion. There’d been days when she’d thought that if she fried, smothered, or baked another thing, she’d lose her mind.

Tonight she cooked with love, purpose … and just a little guilt. Love because when it came to cooking, she knew she could throw down. Adam loved food, and her fried chicken was his favorite. Purpose because she thought Toussaint’s latest idea was a stroke of genius, that the timing for said idea was perfect, that Adam would surely be against it, and that if anybody could change his mind she could, by using various types of thighs. And guilt because a married woman of respectable society, with grown sons and grandchildren, had no business thinking about the things she’d been thinking about the past two weeks. You have a good life, she chided herself while turning over a perfectly seasoned, perfectly crisp piece of chicken. Women would kill to be in your shoes. Then she thought of her options, the special project that had been placed before her, and couldn’t deny the excitement that thinking about it caused. As she set the table, lit the candles, and called her husband to a meal fit for a king, Candace knew she had some decisions to make. And she also knew that one wrong move, at any given moment, could turn her life upside down.

“Hey, Ace, how you livin’?” Malcolm poured himself a glass of cold lemon water as he sat next to his uncle. Adam’s twin brother was named Abram, but everybody called him Ace, including his nephews and his children.

“Can’t complain,” Ace answered, looking around the room. There was a steady hum of voices as the players in the Taste of Soul restaurant empire conversed among themselves and waited for the midyear company planning meeting to begin. The bright and cheerful conference room décor, consisting of leather, mahogany, silk-covered walls, and freshly cut flowers, contrasted with the quiet atmosphere.

Zoe Williams, Ace’s executive assistant and the taker of meeting minutes, entered the room and sat next to Ace’s daughter. “I love that suit,” she said, managing to set down a purse, folders, and an iPad without spilling the cup of coffee also in her hand. “I don’t think I’ve seen it before.” Zoe had commented on the suit just to make small talk and to keep from staring at the person who seemed to take all of the air whenever they were in the same room—Toussaint Livingston. While working to breathe normally, she tried to look sufficiently interested as her boss’s daughter, who was home on break from studying abroad, went on and on about clothes Zoe couldn’t afford. All Zoe wanted to do was stare at her boss’s nephew and figure out how to go from Ace’s assistant to Toussaint’s wifey. Among the other non-Livingstons present, however, was the marketing manager, the woman Zoe would have to crawl over to climb into Toussaint’s bed.

“Sorry for the delay,” Adam said as he walked through the double doors of the large conference room. “That was an emergency call from our Dallas location. On top of the major challenges we’re already facing, one of the cooks suffered a severe burn and was transported to the hospital by ambulance.”

A variety of responses were heard around the room.

“Why couldn’t he have been driven to the hospital by one of the employees?” money-conscious Malcolm asked. “Did the brother burn his feet up?”

A couple at the table snickered but quickly stopped when Adam cut them a sobering look. “This is serious,” he admonished Malcolm. “Somehow, one of the large pots of hot grease tipped over, and this young man suffered third-degree burns on more than thirty percent of his body. He’s got a long and painful road ahead, filled with surgery, skin grafting, and rehabilitation. Zoe, get me his information as soon as this meeting is over and book me a flight to Dallas for tomorrow afternoon. Oh, and send flowers,” Adam added. “As for the rest of you, please keep this young man in your prayers.”

“Jesus is the healer, hallelujah,” Malcolm’s wife, Victoria, said fervently, as if she were in church instead of a conference room and proving why she only visited the company offices twice a year. “I think we should pray for the young man right now.”

“We can pray later,” Malcolm quickly countered, concern mixed with obvious irritation. Since his wife had renewed her commitment to the Lord, their sex life had hit the skids, and he was more than a little upset. We haven’t had sex in two months. Why don’t you pray that the Lord will heal those headaches you keep having? Later, Malcolm would commend himself on the fact that he didn’t say this out loud.

“I don’t have to tell you what’s going to come out of this,” Toussaint said to his father.

“I know,” Adam replied, motioning for Zoe to hand out the meeting agenda. “I’ve already got a call in to our attorneys, to make sure our liability insurance can take care of … whatever comes up.”

After everyone had received their copy of the order of business, Adam nodded at Ace.

“Y’all know the main reason we’re here,” Ace said, his posture relaxed, his tone casual. “Like many businesses, this one is in trouble, for the short-term. Let me emphasize that. This downturn is temporary. We’ve weathered financial storms before, and we’ll weather this one as well. But it’s serious, and we want everyone around this table to know that. If we don’t generate a large cash infusion, we’ll have to file for Chapter 11 bankruptcy within six months.”

This time the room’s reactions were more audible. Zoe gasped, the CFO groaned, and a third person hid their shock behind a cough. But the Livingstons were as cool as cucumbers. Even in their own boardroom, no one ever saw them sweat.

“What this means,” Ace went on, “is that we’d have time to get our stuff together and hold off these creditors who are calling in huge loans because of their own financial struggles. Filing bankruptcy is serious business, no doubt. But know this: In the event that this does happen, business will go on. No one here will lose their jobs.” He fixed Zoe with a reassuring grin. “Businesses do this all the time, to buy time. That’s all we’re doing.”

“I think it’s a good option, Ace,” Malcolm said. Others voiced their opinion, and then Toussaint stood. He handed out elegantly bound copies of a business proposal. “What you’re looking at, ladies and gentleman,” he began, “is your future—the future of Taste of Soul.” He waited, making sure he had everyone’s attention. He did. Especially for the ladies in the room who were not his kin, six feet two inches of creamy, chiseled chocolate was hard to ignore. “This is the blueprint for taking our company to the next level, without filing for bankruptcy. We all know that the twenty-first-century game for corporate America is expansion through mergers. It’s time to go big or go home.”

“Oh, here we go …,” Malcolm grumbled. He met his father’s eye and knew Adam’s sentiments were the same. Taste would always belong to the Livingstons, period. But a subtle nod from Adam silenced further grumbling from Malcolm or anyone else.

“This is what I propose,” Toussaint continued, “a chain of Taste locations across America and throughout the world, franchises, along with retail establishments that carry an array of complimentary products. The goal is lofty—fifty new establishments in five years—but is achievable through partnership with high-level investors who can infuse this company with up to half a billion dollars cash immediately upon closing the deal. We will still control the business. All decisions will still be made by a Livingston majority.

“I know this plan is aggressive,” Toussaint concluded enthusiastically as he prowled the room like a caged panther. “But I’ve done the research, crunched the numbers. Now is the perfect time to strike—while the iron is hot.” He paused, gauging the faces of those seated around the large, mahogany conference table, and then took his seat.

“Thank you for a well-delivered proposal, Toussaint,” Adam said sincerely. He didn’t agree with his son’s assessments but couldn’t deny that they’d been delivered flawlessly. “As always, you came well prepared.” Instead of voicing his objections, Adam looked around the room. “Discussion?”

“I’d like to know which iron is hot,” Malcolm taunted without looking at his brother. “The economy is still in the tank, unemployment is high, and the real estate market has yet to rebound. While what you’re proposing may look good on paper, I don’t think your plan will succeed in real life.”

“All of the points you mentioned are exactly why this is the perfect time,” Toussaint calmly responded. “Right now, premium real estate is available at bargain prices. Aligning ourselves with federal funding opportunities will help put people back to work. As for the tanking economy, I think our last-quarter profits are proof enough that no matter how low one’s bank account, folks still have to eat. That is why ours is an attractive company to potential investors and entrepreneurs.”

“What are your thoughts, Ace?” Adam asked his twin brother. Although their similarities were unmistakable, few knew these two were actually twins. Where Adam seemed to wear every rib, slice of sweet potato pie, and shot of cognac around his stomach, constant workouts and a lifetime of jogging kept Ace’s body fit and trim. Adam kept his salt-and-pepper hair in a close-cropped style, along with a tidy mustache and goatee. Ace had shaved his head the minute the gray had started coming in and was still clean-shaven. Their personalities were different as well. Ace was prone to take the chances his more conservative brother passed up. Which is why he thought Toussaint’s plan had merit and warranted further review. This is what he thought and what he gave as his answer.

Malcolm looked from Ace to Toussaint. “If we decide to expand, keeping the business a hundred percent in the family, where would you propose our next location be? Other Southern states? The Midwest?”

“It’s all outlined in the back of the proposal I gave you,” Toussaint said, leaning back casually in the tan-colored leather chair. He knew he’d baited the hook well and was patient enough to wait until the right time to reel everyone in. “All of the details are included in the extra reading material at the back of the binder, to be perused at your leisure. However, to answer your question, I think the next gold mine for this company is out west—locations in Los Angeles, followed by one on the Vegas strip.”

Zoe’s mind whirled even as she typed the meeting minutes on her iPad. The meetings were also recorded so that the final report she prepared could be as detailed as possible, but often she was asked to repeat a fact or figure that had been shared earlier, so she took notes on the spot in addition to having everything on a recorder. But it wasn’t the talk of menus and revenues that had her thoughts going a mile a minute. She was thinking how good Toussaint looked in his tailored black suit and wondering whether he planned to move out west during the proposed expansion and whether she’d be able to make her move and work her magic soon enough to go with him. Before long, Zoe would realize she wasn’t the only female in the conference room making plans.

Toussaint had plans too. He’d hurriedly left the office after the meeting and now bobbed his head to Marvin Gaye as he cruised through the streets of Atlanta in his shiny black Mercedes sport coupe. Though late, he was determined to keep the appointment with the interior designer who would turn his downtown penthouse from a casual bachelor pad to a millionaire showcase. Her first assignment would be to transform his living and dining areas into a contemporary, elegant yet understated paradise. Her second assignment, if the meeting went as Toussaint planned, would take place in the bedroom, where Toussaint would initiate a different type of layout—one where no clothing was needed.

Malcolm twirled a glass paperweight as he sat behind his desk. Papers covered the rich cherrywood, and both his inbox and outbox were overflowing as well. A stack of manila folders rested on the desk’s left side, the only nod to neatness. Toussaint’s proposal lay open directly in front of him, with certain points highlighted and others underlined. There was no denying that his brother’s proposal was excellent. The details he’d included at the back of the folder certainly added credence to what Toussaint had presented in the meeting. Toussaint had a keen eye when it came to seeing the big picture of the Livingston enterprise. Yep, I think your plan could definitely happen, baby brother. Smiling, Malcolm opened his desk drawer, unlocked a special compartment, and pulled out a plan of his own.

“Burning the midnight oil, big bro?” Toussaint asked as he strolled into Malcolm’s office.

“I could ask you the same,” Malcolm replied as he calmly closed the folder he’d been reviewing and placed it back in the drawer. “I thought I saw you leave earlier.”

“Yeah, had an appointment.” Toussaint frowned, remembering how the second part of his meeting hadn’t gone as planned. “I just came back for a couple things. I’m going to work from home tomorrow.” He noticed his open proposal on Malcolm’s desktop. “Oh, taking notes, I see,” he said, and sat down in one of the plush seats facing the desk.

“Just doing as you requested—taking a closer look at my leisure.”

“Still convinced the plan will fail?”

“You did your homework. But I’m adamantly opposed to splitting up the business. Our restaurant empire is the Livingston legacy, for our children and theirs.”

“Exactly. My plan simply ensures there will be something to leave them.”

Malcolm shrugged. “I noticed a few eyes light up at your plans to expand west, one pair being those of our very capable marketing manager.”

Toussaint smiled at the mention of their marketing manager, Shyla. “You’re just mad you can’t hit that fine ass like I do.”

“You’re not going to be satisfied until you’ve slept with every single woman in the company,” Malcolm said with a frown. “What about Alexis? Did you call her?”

Toussaint’s countenance remained neutral. “I called her. We met.”

“And?”

“It’s all good. She’s playing hard to get, but that’s just getting me hard.”

“You’re thirty-two years old, Toussaint. It’s time to think about getting married and settling down. Do you think that might happen with Shyla?”

“Naw, man, it’s not even like that. Me and baby girl like to hang out, that’s all. But speaking of marriage, what’s up with you and Vic? It felt kinda chilly between y’all in the boardroom earlier.”

“Nothing’s up,” Malcolm honestly replied. “That’s the problem.”

“Care to talk about it?”

Malcolm stood and walked over to the large windows that looked out over downtown Atlanta. “Not much to talk about, especially where my wife is concerned. Her focus is taken up with the kids and that holy roller church she’s been attending. At one time, she swore she’d never worship where her mother attended. Now she can’t curse, drink, or screw because she’s ‘living for the Lord.’ “

“Whoa, wait a minute. You aren’t buttering the biscuit?”

Malcolm had said more than he intended. “We’ll get through it,” he replied, coming back to his desk and picking up Toussaint’s proposal.

“I sure hope so. You’re only thirty-four. Y’all have at least thirty, forty more years together. You need to keep the home fires burning before somebody else starts looking hot to you.”

“Hey, Shyla,” Malcolm said as someone “hot” stuck her head just inside his office door. “You’re working late.”

“I was headed out and heard your voices. I don’t mean to interrupt.”

Malcolm waved her in. “You’re not interrupting.”

Shyla knew the picture she painted as she strode confidently into the room and sat next to Toussaint. Aside from being naturally beautiful, her makeup was flawless, her tailored Chanel suit fit to perfection, her three-inch heels emphasized her long, lean legs, and the new weave she’d just gotten the past weekend was worth every bit of the twelve hundred dollars she’d paid for it. “Your presentation was excellent, Toussaint. I looked for you afterward because I have a couple marketing ideas regarding the new markets that you might find interesting. But your secretary told me you’d left for the day.”

“Had a meeting,” Toussaint countered easily. “But I have some time now. Why don’t we go back to your office and talk about it.”

The two left Malcolm’s office shortly thereafter, and everyone knew that talking wouldn’t be the only thing happening once Toussaint and Shyla were alone.

Malcolm placed his key in the lock and turned the doorknob to their six-bedroom, six-bath, colonial-style brick home. It was a little after 10:00 p.m., and considering the fact that four children lived there—between the ages of three and eight—things were surprisingly quiet. He loosened his tie as he headed to the stairs and his new favorite room, the man cave. Like his father, cognac was his drink of choice, and like Adam, Malcolm’s waistline was beginning to show how many meals this favored drink had chased down.

Malcolm placed two cubes of ice in a tumbler and poured two fingers of the amber-colored liquid into the glass. He took a drink, grimaced, and poured a bit more. He took off his tie, followed by his jacket, and sat down in the dark room without turning on the lights. Here I am only thirty-four years old and feeling like an old man. Few friends, even fewer interests outside work, and no sex life. Man, you’re pitiful.

“I thought I heard the garage door open.” Victoria startled Malcolm, whose back had been to her when she came down the stairs. “What are you doing down here drinking in the dark? That’s what drunks do.”

Malcolm took a deep breath and another sip of his drink before standing and turning around. “Hello, Victoria.”

“Hello.” Victoria crossed her arms and leaned against the massive fireplace mantel. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” Malcolm retrieved his jacket, tie, and briefcase from the couch and headed out of the room.

Victoria quickly followed. “What do you mean, nothing? You come home and head straight for the liquor cabinet, without checking on your wife or your kids, and expect me to believe that everything is okay?”

“Don’t try starting an argument, Victoria. It’s not unusual for me to have a drink when I come home in the evenings.”

“Yes, but in the dark?”

“Where are the kids?” Malcolm was ready to change the subject.

“Where do you think they are on a school night? In bed.” Victoria turned and marched back up the stairs.

Malcolm followed her to the master suite. Victoria walked to her side of the oak, four-poster, king-sized bed, grabbed her Bible off the nightstand, and once again headed toward the door.

“Are you going to be long?” Malcolm asked her. “I was hoping we could … spend some quality time together.”

Victoria snorted. “Oh, you can’t speak but you can screw? That liquor’s got you riled up and now you want to have intercourse?”

“The liquor has nothing to do with it,” Malcolm said, slowly walking toward her. “It’s been months since we’ve been intimate, Victoria. I need to make love to my wife and don’t feel I should have to beg her.”

Victoria put up her hand. Malcolm stopped a few feet away from her. “The Lord has spoken to me about that boy who got burned,” she said in a firm tone that brooked no argument. “He told me to fast and pray for three days, to help bring about that child’s healing. No food, only water.”

“Good. Maybe you’ll lose one of those rolls around your neck or your stomach,” Malcolm shot back, hurt and angry that he’d been rejected—again.

“Perhaps I will,” Victoria replied calmly, masking the hurt his jab had caused. “At any rate, I’ll be sleeping in the guest room while I do the Lord’s work.” She walked to the door and placed a hand on the doorknob. Before opening it, she turned and said, “I would love for you to join me and the kids at church this Sunday. That’s something we could do together. Good night.”

Toussaint and Shyla entered the upscale Buckhead Taste of Soul location. The rich vocals of Aretha Franklin assailed them immediately, oozing from the bar and waiting area located at the front of the restaurant. Toussaint bobbed his head to the beat as Aretha spelled out the respect she wanted. His uncle Ace’s suggestion from ten years ago—placing jukeboxes in the restaurants so patrons could have soul music along with their soul food—had been excellent. The idea was further enhanced when Ace’s wife, Diane, had suggested that the main platters be named after soul groups. Now, instead of ordering a meat dish with a salad and sides, customers ordered the Otis Redding Rib Eye Platter or the Wilson Pickett Pork Chop Plate. A highlight from those early days was when the Godfather of Soul, James Brown, personally came in and christened his namesake—the James Brown Baby Back Big Snack, a half slab of succulent baby back ribs, served with potato salad, coleslaw, and tangy baked beans.

“I can’t believe how crowded it is,” Shyla said as Toussaint led them to a corner booth.

“What do you mean you can’t believe it? I thought you knew!”

“Of course, Mr. Livingston, I’m well aware of this location’s success. But it’s three o’clock in the afternoon. I thought these heavier flows occurred mainly during lunch and dinner.”

“If you’d patronize this establishment more, you’d know that it’s always busy,” Toussaint admonished gently.

“My waistline can handle this place only once or twice a month. Do you think you’d like me with a pudgy stomach and flabby thighs?”

“You know I like you nice and tight, baby,” Toussaint drawled softly. Further comment was interrupted as their waitress came up to the table.

“Hello, Toussaint,” she said with a wide smile. “You’re looking nice today. Is that a new suit?”

“Hello, Chardonnay,” Toussaint responded. “This is not a new suit, and you look nice as well.”

“Thank you.” Chardonnay preened. Like most women who worked at Taste of Soul, she fantasized about being with Toussaint Livingston. “I like that chain too. It’s platinum, huh?”

Shyla cleared her throat. “Excuse me, but is Toussaint the only customer you see at this table?”

Naw, bitch, he’s just the only one I wanted to speak to! “Uh, hi, Shyla.”

“I’d prefer that you call me Ms. Martin, and, Toussaint, shouldn’t she address you as Mr. Livingston? You are a top executive, while she’s … well … at the opposite end of the spectrum.”

Chardonnay ignored Shyla and looked at Toussaint. Zoe said she’d bet money this skank ho was fucking you. I bet she’s right.

“You know we’re not that formal,” Toussaint said, smiling at Chardonnay. “Besides, we value every employee in the corporation, no matter their position.”

Shyla wasn’t ready to leave Chardonnay alone. This troll is almost drooling, for God’s sake. Toussaint would never stoop to the level of your ghetto ass! “At Taste of Soul, we pride ourselves on excellence in every area.” Shyla scanned Chardonnay from head to toe. “Your blouse is wrinkled, your shoes are not shined, and that blob of barbeque sauce on your skirt is disgusting. Do you feel this is the best you can do in representing us?”

Chardonnay looked down at the splotch, more to mask the fire in her eyes than anything else. She needed this job, or she would have already mopped up half the floor with Shyla’s weave. Plus, she figured if Shyla was sleeping with Toussaint, she might have enough clout to get her fired. You’ve gone and crossed the wrong sistah, Chardonnay thought, even as she fixed her face with a look of embarrassment. Didn’t your mama ever tell you not to fuck with the person who was fixing your food? “I’m sorry,” Chardonnay said in a kind, soft voice. “I didn’t notice the stain. I just finished serving a family with children. Should I take your order and then go and remove it, or would you like me to remove it first, while you two decide what you want?”

“Where’s Jermaine?” Shyla asked. “I’d rather he wait on us. I don’t like your fake, syrupy attitude.”

“Now, now, ladies,” Toussaint said. “Let’s not fight. We’re on the same team, and I’m ready to eat. We would love for you to take our order, Chardonnay,” he continued. “What are the specials today?”

Chardonnay rattled off five different specials from memory, with specific details about each one above and beyond what was required. Her special care with customers brought her big tips, and she wanted to take special care with the man currently at her table. After taking their orders, Chardonnay smiled at Toussaint and apologized again to Shyla. “I’ll bring your drinks and then take care of this stain,” she said. “Thanks for pointing it out to me. I know I’m representing the company and want to look my best.” With that she turned and walked away, knowing how the navy skirt that was part of her uniform emphasized her bubble butt and knowing that Toussaint was watching.

She was right. Toussaint watched Chardonnay’s swaying backside until she turned the corner. “A bit hard on the help, don’t you think?” he asked once he refocused on Shyla.

“She was rude and blatantly disrespectful,” Shyla answered. “I’m surprised you didn’t check her before I did.”

“How did she disrespect you?”

Shyla rolled her eyes. Men! Put a pair of titties and a big ass in front of them and they go deaf! “Never mind, it’s over,” she said finally, not wanting to give Chardonnay any more air time. Shyla had more important fish to fry than the ones being prepared for Toussaint’s plate. Such as getting a little platinum of her own—namely an engagement ring. “Given any more thought to my suggestion?”

“What suggestion?” Toussaint asked.

“My moving to your department and us working together. And about taking me with you when you move to LA.”

Toussaint laughed. “Girl, the plans aren’t even off the paper yet and you’ve already got us living in Malibu.”

“Oh, please. You know your plans, at least phase one, are going to happen. You always get what you want, Toussaint.”

Not always, Toussaint thought, remembering his interior designer’s polite but firm rebuff the week before. And then, as if he’d conjured her up, Alexis St. Clair came walking toward him, followed by a handsome, nicely dressed older man.

“Alexis!” Toussaint said, rising and extending his hand. “I see that designing isn’t the only place you have good taste.”

“Hello, Toussaint,” Alexis replied as she shook his hand. “This is one of my favorite places to dine, and that was so even before I met you.” Alexis felt eyes on her and looked beyond Toussaint. From the look that was returned, she assumed the woman to be Toussaint’s love interest. “I’m Alexis, Toussaint’s interior designer,” she said, wanting to nip any misconceptions in the bud. Alexis prided herself on living a drama-free lifestyle and intended to keep it that way. That’s one of the reasons why, as fine as Toussaint was, and as much as she’d wanted to do otherwise, she’d refused his advances. “I never mix business with pleasure,” she’d told him.

After introductions were made, Toussaint spoke again. “Would you two care to join us?”

“We’d love to, but we have business to discuss,” Alexis answered. “Shyla, it was a pleasure meeting you. Toussaint, I’ll see you next week.” The gentleman with Alexis shook Toussaint’s hand and nodded at Shyla before following Alexis around the corner to the restaurant’s second dining room.

“Wow, Toussaint, keeping secrets from me. You didn’t tell me you were redesigning your penthouse. And you’ve found quite the attractive designer to assist you.”

“I don’t tell you everything, woman.” For instance, I won’t tell you that there’s something about that sistah that turns me all the way on!

While Chardonnay returned, sans barbeque stain, with their salads and placed them on the table, Toussaint pondered his latest prey. Alexis was a short, dark brick house who reminded him of Lauryn Hill. Her features were exotic, which in the conversation the week before, Alexis had attributed to her Caribbean grandparents. She wore her hair dreadlocked, the thick, long dreads falling almost to her waist. But it wasn’t just her looks that drew Toussaint to her. Alexis was a study in contradictions: at once bold and shy, confrontational yet compassionate. She’d nailed Toussaint’s personality and taste with one walk-through of his condo. And she had a subtle sense of humor that she unleashed at the most unexpected times. And there was something else, an alluring, mystical quality that he couldn’t define. She was a puzzle, one that Toussaint planned on solving. You always get what you want, Toussaint. Toussaint planned on putting Shyla’s words to the test. In the meantime, he steered their conversation back to a safe topic—business. “What are your thoughts for our holiday campaign?”

Back in the kitchen, Chardonnay waited impatiently for her order. “This is for Toussaint,” she told the head chef, yet again. The two worked well together and were always teasing around. “Act like you know.”

“Look, I put quality on the plate no matter who it is. Everything I do is quality, believe that.” The chef’s eyes roamed Chardonnay’s body before he gave her a wink. “Yeah, whatever, man. Just try not to burn the catfish.” A minute later, the chef put a perfectly prepared plate on the pickup counter. “Order up!”

Chardonnay immediately walked over and reached for Shyla’s order. “Move!” she said to Jermaine, who was also waiting for a customer’s plate.

“Aren’t you going to wait and take these both out together?” Jermaine asked.

“Yeah,” Chardonnay said over her shoulder. The head chef frowned slightly as he watched Chardonnay walk around the corner to the pantry.

As soon as Chardonnay turned the corner, she did what she’d planned—gave Shyla Martin a little something extra to eat. She returned quickly, just in time to see the chef set down Toussaint’s order. She balanced the two plates expertly as she walked out of the kitchen.

Chardonnay hummed the Supremes track that had been playing in the bar when she’d walked past it on the way to the restroom. She laughed out loud as she imagined Shyla enjoying her extra creamy mashed potatoes. Now, you haughty-ass heifah, that’s just what you get! She danced up to the counter to key in her next table’s order. “I saw you.”

Chardonnay huffed as Bobby “Butt Stank” Wilson came up behind her. The man had been trying to get in her pants ever since being hired as a line cook two months ago. “Boy, quit jaw jacking and get outta my face.” “Baby, I’m getting ready to get all into yo fine ass. Unless you want me to just go ahead and tell management what I saw.”

“Okay, nucka,” Chardonnay said, putting a hand on her hip as she turned around. “Just what in the hell do you think you saw?”

“Not what I think, what I know. I saw you spit in that plate of food. And that was after you’d stuck your finger in your panties and then swirled it in the cabbage.”

Zoe’s phone rang. She crawled across the floor to answer it, trying to catch her breath along the way. She’d been laughing for a full two minutes, ever since Chardonnay had told her what happened at the restaurant earlier. She’d laughed so hard and so long that Chardonnay had finally hung up on her. At least that’s what Zoe assumed. As she looked at the caller ID, she realized she was right. It was Chardonnay calling back.

“It ain’t that damn funny,” Chardonnay said as soon as Zoe picked up. “Zoe! I know your ass can hear me.”

“Ooh, girl, wait a minute.” Zoe took another calming breath. “I’m trying to catch my breath … wait.” She took a couple more deep gulps and squeezed her eyes tightly together to shut out the picture that Chardonnay’s story had created, the one that had her rolling on the floor laughing. “Did you really do that?” she asked once she could speak. “Did you really season a sistah’s cabbage with some pussy juice?” The question sent her howling again.

“You ain’t got no damn sense,” Chardonnay chided. But Zoe’s laugh was infectious, and pretty soon, Chardonnay found herself laughing again as well.

“Girl,” Zoe said, wiping her eyes. “When you texted me that you needed to talk, I was expecting anything but this. Whew! That’s some hot ghetto mess action right there!”

“She asked for it,” Chardonnay said as she fixed plates for her two young children. “Tangeray! Cognac! Come on in here and eat! Hold on a minute, girl. I’ma have to do a beat-down to pull these heathens away from the television. Tangeray!”

Zoe used the time it took Chardonnay to gather her kids around the dinner table to further compose herself. She went into the bedroom where she’d deposited her purse on the nightstand, pulled out a pack of Newport longs, and lit one up. Taking a deep drag, she slipped into a pair of bright yellow Pooh slippers and headed to the kitchen to pour herself a glass of her friend’s namesake. Taking what was once a Peter Pan peanut butter jar, she filled it halfway and took a long swallow.

“Zoe, you there?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Good, because I need your advice on part two of this shit.”

“You mean there’s more?” Zoe took her glass and headed back to the bedroom, wishing she’d copped some weed earlier, as she’d planned.

“Probably not, but a sistah can’t be too careful.”

“Chardonnay, I’m not following you. What’s going on?”

“Bobby said he saw me.”

“Saw you spit in sistah-girl’s food?”

“And put my hand in my panties.”

Zoe took another long drink of her chilled white wine as she pondered this tidbit. “Girl, young blood is probably just trying to get in your panties. He’s been sniffing your behind from day one on the job.”

“He’s trying to apply pressure … says he captured what I did on his camera phone.”

“And you believe him?”

“I don’t want to.”

“Did he show you?”

“Not yet. A large party came in and we got busy. I had to leave as soon as my shift was over to pick up the kids.”

“So what’s he want? Some money or something?”

“Hell no, girl. What do you think a jacked-up-looking fool like him wants?”

Zoe smoked her cigarette as she pondered this question. She’d brought a plate home from the restaurant but hadn’t eaten, so the chardonnay had gone straight to her head. “Well, he’s a stupid fool is all I can say. He knows you don’t make much more than him. Don’t know what else he could use the pics for unless he’s trying to come up in the company. Or unless he’s … Oh, damn.”

“Exactly. He wants a little taste of that juice I stirred in Shyla’s entrée.”

“His ass is so hard up that he’s got to blackmail somebody for sex?”

“Are you surprised? One look at his face and you can understand that shit. When God was handing out looks, he ran out of ‘handsome’ and just slapped a dose of ‘butt ugly’ up against Bobby’s face.”

Zoe laughed despite the relative seriousness of the situation. “Are you going to give him some?”

“Hell no! Have you walked close to Bobby lately? He smells like fifteen kinds of funk on a good day, and his breath is worse than a fart generated from refried beans. I’d rather kiss Uncle’s pit bull in the mouth.”

“Ooh, Chardonnay. Why you want to lie about a man like that? True, Bobby ain’t much to look at, but he’s a hard worker. He’s always working double shifts. I even heard Mr. Livingston talking about how dedicated he is. You could do worse in a father for your kids.”

“Oh, really? Then why don’t you give him some? I’m trying to come up with somebody like Toussaint.”

“Toussaint? Please, you’re never going to get a man like him.”

“Humph. You’re just saying that because you want his ass. Girl, let me get off this phone. Yak is trying to beat his sister in the head with a rib bone. Don’t tell nobody what I told you.”

“Who am I going to tell? Bougie Shyla Martin? I might have to ask her how she liked the cabbage, though.” Zoe started laughing again.

“Heifah, you’d better keep your mouth shut. I ain’t playing.”

“Girl, your secret’s safe with me. I’ll holla later.”

The conversation she’d had with Zoe stayed with Chardonnay for the rest of the evening, even while she bathed her kids and got herself ready for bed, and even as she rolled up a blunt and settled on the couch to watch another crazy episode of Bad Girls Club. She thought about what it would be like to sleep with Bobby. And then she thought what it would be like to ride a fine brothah like Toussaint all night long. It was a no-brainer. If she was going to delve into the company dick pool, Chardonnay decided she’d aim straight for the top.

Toussaint smiled as he snuck up on his mother. He tiptoed up to the island in the center of the designer kitchen and placed a light kiss on her neck.

Candace screamed as the Caesar salad dressing she’d been making flew off the whisk and landed everywhere. “Boy! What is wrong with you?” She took the whisk and popped Toussaint in the middle of the forehead. “Trying to give your mama a heart attack?”

“Dang, Mama!” Toussaint said, still laughing as he walked over, calmly reached for a paper towel, and wiped the dab of salad dressing off his face. “You’re about to turn that whisk into a deadly weapon.” He reached for a few more paper towels and began looking on the floor for liquid spots to clean up.

“Oh, don’t worry about it. Beverly can clean it up later.” Candace was referring to the Haitian housekeeper she’d hired the year she turned fifty and decided she’d washed enough dishes and swept enough floors for her lifetime. She’d further justified the decision with the knowledge that the salary she paid Beverly fed her six family members who were cramped into a two-bedroom apartment on Atlanta’s west side.

“I’m still adjusting to the fact that you have hired help,” Toussaint said. He’d ignored his mother’s suggestion and was now wiping a bit of dressing off the stainless-steel refrigerator door. “If you don’t watch out, people are going to think you’re bougie … trying to keep up with the Joneses.”

“Please, son, you know better than that. We’re Livingstons. The Joneses are trying to keep up with us.”

Toussaint stuck his finger into the bowl of salad dressing. “This is good, Mama.”

“Boy, get your finger out my food. You haven’t changed a bit—still that rambunctious child who shot your cousin in the back of the head with a BB gun.”

“Ha! That’s why you love me, Mama.”

“That I do, son. That I do. That’s probably your brother,” Candace said when the doorbell rang. “Unlike you, who walked into our home as if you still lived here and scared me half to death, your brother has manners and is ringing the bell.”

A half hour later, Adam, Candace, and their two sons were seated around the massive mahogany and cherrywood table that anchored the Livingston’s dining room. They’d just finished the Caesar salad and were digging into Candace’s seafood lasagna with gusto.

“Victoria is going to be sorry she missed this, Malcolm,” Toussaint said around a mouthful of food. “I bet y’all’s cook can’t compete with this dish … no way.”

Malcolm shrugged. “Chef does all right. Of course, nobody can compete with Mom’s cooking.”

“I’m sorry she and the kids couldn’t join us,” Candace said, repeating what she’d said earlier when learning that only Malcolm would be joining them. “That new church she joined sure keeps her busy. But then again, it’s been a long time since there’s been a Sunday dinner with just the four of us.”

“I can’t believe July is around the corner and the year is halfway over,” Adam said.

Toussaint nodded his agreement. “Fourth of July next week. Time flies when you’re having fun.”

Speak for yourself, Romeo. Malcolm reached for another slice of the bread Candace had made from scratch. He took a bite and groaned his pleasure. “Remember Malcolm Mondays and Toussaint Tuesdays? When y’all would have to eat what we cooked?”

“How could we forget?” Adam asked. “Some of the stuff y’all made could have killed me! Like that almost-raw pork you served covered in barbeque sauce? I think some of those worms are still crawling around inside me.”

“Naw, Dad,” Malcolm countered. “I think you’ve drunk enough cognac to kill anything living down there. Besides, I was, what, seven or eight years old when I baked that first slab of ribs?”

“And you were so determined,” Candace added, smiling. “You looked so proud as you brought in that platter and set it on the table. Your father and I didn’t have the heart to tell you that we couldn’t eat that meat.”

“You didn’t have to. Toussaint spitting his bite back onto the plate was hint enough.”

Everyone at the table cracked up at that memory and at the fact that Candace had diverted the boy’s attention long enough to secretly microwave the ribs to a level of doneness. The conversation continued, largely revolving around cooking and food.

“Yeah, if your last name is Livingston, you’ve got to be able to burn,” Adam concluded. “And thank God that now I’ll gladly park my feet under Malcolm’s table and eat anything he fixes.”

“Well, you better make sure it’s Malcolm and not Victoria cooking,” Toussaint joked. “That girl’s been in the family for over ten years and still can’t boil an egg!”

Malcolm joined in the laughter, but the smile on his face didn’t match how he felt inside. The family had often joked about Victoria’s lack of cooking skills, but her stellar pedigree, good looks, and large bank account had overruled what would have been a deal breaker with a more common woman. Malcolm was embarrassed by the fact that hiring a chef had been a move of necessity as much as convenience—and not because Victoria was busy being a mother to four children. She was also a spoiled only child who had been the apple of her late father’s eye, and she had always lived the life of a prima donna. From the second year of their marriage, Malcolm and Victoria’s home had never been without a cook, housekeeper, or chauffeur, and after the first childbirth, they added a nanny. Malcolm’s grandfather had put the situation into succinct order after tasting the omelet his granddaughter-in-law attempted during his first visit to their home after the wedding. The eggs were almost burned on the outside, runny on the inside, and she’d failed to wash the vegetables that were mixed in.

“Well, it must be what she does in the bedroom,” his grandfather had said somberly after forcing himself to eat a few bites.

“Excuse me?” Malcolm had asked, confused. “You obviously didn’t marry her for her skills in the kitchen, son. If you didn’t know how to cook, your family would starve to death.”

“I’m looking forward to the Fourth and heading to Hilton Head,” Malcolm said, changing the subject. The Livingstons owned a rambling, eight-bedroom, ten-bath home on this tony island, on land that had been in the family since purchased from the master who freed Malcolm’s great-great-grandfather. “Even Justin is excited,” he continued, speaking of his oldest son. “He’s asked to bring a couple playmates along.”

“Well, everybody’s welcome,” Candace said. “We’ve already reserved an additional villa to handle any last-minute additions to the guest list. It has four bedrooms, with two beds in each, so that should accommodate everyone. Toussaint, will you be inviting a guest? Shyla, maybe?”

“Shyla? Why would you think I’d invite her?”

Candace fixed her youngest son with a knowing look. “Not much gets past your mother. I noticed the way Shyla looked at you during the planning meeting. She handled herself quite professionally, mind you, but while you were presenting the expansion plans, love was written all over her face. And hers wasn’t the only one,” she finished, mumbling under her breath.

Toussaint chose to ignore the last sentence. He knew that Zoe also had a thing for him. And while he preferred dark chocolate, he rarely turned down a tasty sweet treat, no matter the flavor. Toussaint had wondered more than once how Zoe’s administrative efficiency would translate in the bedroom, and he hadn’t totally dismissed the idea of finding out. But she wasn’t coming to Hilton Head, and neither was Shyla. “I might bring someone,” he finally answered.

“Who?” Malcolm asked.

“You’ll just have to wait and see, big brother,” Toussaint answered, already envisioning Alexis in a skimpy yellow bikini. She’d turned down his first date request, but Toussaint was persistent and determined. When it came to challenges, he didn’t back down, especially when the object of said challenge looked so delicious.

It was a rare day off, and Alexis St. Clair was bored to tears. She sipped coffee that had been liberally doused with hazelnut cream and wondered for the umpteenth time why she’d turned down Toussaint’s offer to spend the Fourth of July with his family. It definitely wasn’t because of the excuse she’d given him, that she never dated clients, even though it was true. No, the reason she’d turned down the oh-so-charming Toussaint Livingston was because she saw him for what he was—trouble with a capital T. She’d been caught off guard at their initial meeting, having forgotten the name of the man whose car she’d tried to protect months before. But she hadn’t forgotten one detail about him—that tall, lean body, killer smile, and gorgeous eyes that had made her mouth water and her kitty cat wet. She’d never reacted to a man the way she had to Toussaint and knew she was treading dangerous waters by taking him on as a client. At the end of the day, it was an astute business decision. But personally …

As if it would help her erase these thoughts, Alexis shook her head and stepped away from the large bay window in her two-bedroom condo. She continued to sip coffee as she surveyed her kingdom—a cunning combination of Spanish modern and American contemporary, comfortably formal with hints of eclectic whimsy that showcased Alexis’s style. The condo was small, less than a thousand square feet, but everything in it was quality and classy, much like its owner.

Alexis eyed her cell phone sitting on one of the ebony blocks. She thought about calling her best friend, Kim, but knew she’d be with her in-laws. Another best friend had joined the peace corps. Alexis had to wait until that friend called her. “Maybe I should call Mama,” she mused out loud, picking up her cell. She held the phone in her hand and contemplated the possible outcome of the call. Would Mrs. Barnes be in a rare good mood, or would she be talking about Alexis’s brothers and the latest trouble surrounding them? And how much money would she ask for? That was how the calls usually ended, with Mrs. Barnes asking for some money “to hold until the first.” Of course, Alexis always sent the money, knowing she’d never see it again. It wasn’t that Alexis minded helping her mother. She didn’t. It was that much of the money went to support her unemployed brothers and alcoholic stepfather that Alexis couldn’t stand. No, she concluded, calling Missouri was not a good idea.

“That’s it, Alexis. Go … anywhere!” She finished her coffee as she strode to her room, thinking of what she could wear that didn’t need ironing. When she turned the corner and entered the hallway to her bedroom, her eyes went to where they often did—to the grouping of photos that artfully lined the wall on both sides. She stopped, focusing on one picture in particular. It was of a handsome, dark-skinned man looking proud and distinguished in a double-breasted navy suit. He wasn’t smiling, but a devil-may-care twinkle in his eye belied the picture’s serious tone. His evenly shaped lips were framed by a tidy mustache, and his hair, which was liberally streaked with gray, was combed away from his face. Thomas Alexander St. Clair was the first man to tell Alexis she was beautiful, the first to take her on a date, and the first man she’d loved. Her father was also the reason she was afraid to love again. But Alexis didn’t want to think about that now.

Thirty minutes later, a casually dressed Alexis walked into Taste of Soul. The sounds of Archie Bell & the Drells immediately welcomed her. This quartet thumped out a mean beat, using drums, bass, guitar, and organ, and encouraged everyone to “tighten up” and “make it mellow.” She reached for a takeout menu and began to scan her choices.

“You gotta do the ribs, pretty girl.” A skinny, plain-looking man wearing a stark white apron spoke to her from behind the counter. “I cooked them myself, just for you.”

“Then I guess I should try them,” Alexis politely countered.

“Yeah, and you should try going out on a date with me too!”

“Stop harassing our customers, Bobby!” Chardonnay said, playfully smacking him upside the head as she walked up to the register. “Don’t pay any attention to him, ma’am. He’s special.” Chardonnay and Alexis shared a laugh. “But he’s not lying about the ribs. I just had them for lunch and they are bangin’!”

“Then ribs it is!”

“The James Brown Baby Back Big Snack or a whole slab?”

“Um, I think I’ll take a whole one.”

“And your sides? You get three.”

Alexis reopened the menu. “Let’s see … I’ll have the barbe-qued beans, the collard greens, and the mac and cheese.”

“You chose exactly right, sistah. Anything to drink?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“For here or to go?”

“To go.”

Bobby, who’d been standing by Chardonnay this entire time, took the printout from her hand. “Just sit and relax, pretty lady. I’m going to handle this order personally.”

“Thank you, Bobby.” Alexis couldn’t help but smile as he spun on his heels and marched into the kitchen. She knew he was teasing, but the attention felt good, as did the camaraderie. Good food wasn’t the only thing behind Taste’s success. It was the people too.

Alexis took a seat and looked around the dining room. It was less crowded than usual, but several tables were occupied. Alexis’s eye fell on the last booth on the far wall. Instantly, she remembered her encounter with Shyla, the person she’d thought was Toussaint’s woman before he informed her that she was “merely a colleague.” Maybe he asked her to join him today, since I turned him down. A sudden wave of loneliness washed over her, and Alexis sprang from the chair and walked to the jukebox, just for something to do. Who Toussaint Livingston dates is none of my business, she firmly told herself. Just then the songs changed. The Whispers crooned about saying yes, and Alexis wished she’d given Toussaint a different answer. “Have you ever been kissed from head to toe?” Alexis listened as Walter and Scotty sang a question straight through her heart and imagined that if she’d said yes, her evening would have entailed a very different type of fireworks than the ones she’d later watch from a promenade near her home. He’s trouble, Alexis, and you won’t go out with him! But her heart wasn’t listening. Her heart was beating to a totally different . . .